Bonus chapter from Beneath the Silence.

 

So tonight I'm sharing with you a chapter that never made it into Beneath the Silence. 

It follows on from a scene in the book but doesn't affect the story line whatsoever. 

So enjoy a rare night of laughter and normality in New Haven, where even in the darkest times, a little hope can still be found in the most unexpected places.

I hope you enjoy The Last OffThe last Off License License.

The Last Off License

The world had ended, the fall of Ellis was months ago, but some habits were harder to kill

than the dead.

The four men trudged back through the reinforced tunnel, boots echoing on damp concrete,

lantern light flickering against rusted pipes. For once, a job had gone to plan. The graveyard

door was sealed, the exit secure.

Derek led, shoulders heavy but eyes forward. Behind him, the other three were looser,

voices bouncing off the walls.

“Remember the night Callum fell asleep in the taxi rank?” Lee said suddenly, grinning.

“Driver tried to kick him out, but he kept insisting he lived at Taxi Number Three.”

Callum groaned. “Aye, I’ll never live that down. Woke up outside a kebab shop with garlic

sauce all down my jacket. Thought I’d been sick till Derek told me you dropped your

takeaway on me.”

“Correction,” Derek said, voice dry, “you dropped it on yourself. I was too busy arguing with

the driver who’d charged us double the week before.”

Lee doubled over laughing, nearly tripping on a loose pipe. “Those were the days.”

Daryl, walking a pace behind, raised a brow. “Sounds like you three were more dangerous

on a Friday night than half the dead are now.”

“Depends on the night,” Callum admitted.

“You don’t get it, Daryl,” Lee said. “Back then, Friday nights were sacred. Work all week,

then freedom — pints, kebabs, taxis, stories we probably shouldn’t repeat.”

Daryl’s grin was smaller, touched with something softer. “Aye, I get it. Me and Ellie — my

wife — used to shut the shop early on Fridays. She’d drag me to the pub whether I wanted

to or not. Said I needed to loosen up.”

The others went quiet for a moment. Derek gave him a nod. “Bet she managed it.”

Daryl’s grin warmed. “More than once.”

Their laughter echoed along the tunnel, sounding bigger than it was. For once, the place

didn’t feel like a grave.

“Tell you what,” Daryl added, adjusting his grip on his axe, “next run we do, we search a pub

or an off license. Imagine the looks if we rolled back with the truck stacked full of beer.” Even Derek smiled at that. “If it’s safe, and it doesn’t take us off course… why not? Everyone

could use a distraction.”

---

A few days later, he kept his word.

The four of them rolled out in the battered old truck under the excuse of a supply run.

Officially, they were after wiring, batteries, and whatever tools could be scavenged.

Unofficially, there was another mission humming beneath it all.

They followed the overgrown road into Shotts, tyres crunching glass and gravel. The

buildings were tired shells now, windows blown out, signs faded.

The first pub they found sat just off the main road, its sign still hanging by a rusted chain:

The Lay By. Daryl pushed the door open with his boot and they stepped inside.

The place smelled of mildew and damp wood. Broken chairs lay scattered across the sticky

floor, bottles smashed and looted long ago. Behind the bar, only empty optics dangled like

glass bones.

“Bugger all,” Callum muttered, kicking a splintered stool.

“Not even a barrel left,” Lee added, crouching to peer behind the counter. “Somebody beat

us to it.”

They left with nothing but dust clinging to their boots.

---

Further along the high street stood another pub, its faded gold lettering still just visible above

the doorway: The Brandy Bar.

The air inside was colder, still carrying the faint ghost of smoke and beer. Tables were

overturned, chairs scattered, and a jukebox leaned drunkenly in the corner.

Callum vaulted the bar, ducking to check the shelves. Nothing but smashed glass and empty

boxes. “Stripped bare,” he muttered.

Daryl found a trapdoor half-hidden behind the counter and tugged it open. A narrow stair led

down into the dark. He flicked his torch on and descended with Derek close behind. At the

bottom was the cellar — racks overturned, puddles long dried, casks split and drained. Not a

drop remained.

“Same story down here,” Derek said flatly as they climbed back up.

Lee kicked at a broken table leg. “Two pubs, no booze. Folk really didn’t waste time.” He crouched to the floor near the bar, brushing aside rubble, and his hand closed on

something small. He lifted it: a bent dart. Then another. And another. A grin spread across

his face.

Crossing the room, he yanked the old dartboard from its hook, coughing as dust rained

down. Holding it up like a trophy, he said, “Well, at least we’re not leaving this pub

empty-handed.”

Callum chuckled. “Aye, shame your aim was shite even before the fall.”

Lee smirked. “Better than nothing. Might even start a league back home.”

Derek shook his head but allowed himself a small smile.

---

They trudged back onto the high street, Lee proudly carrying the dartboard under his arm

like it was worth its weight in gold. The four of them were about ready to call it a wasted trip

when Callum suddenly stopped and pointed.

“Hold up.”

There, wedged between a shuttered bakery and a boarded-up charity shop, stood a squat

little building with a sun-faded green sign: Ali’s Mini Market.

Unlike the pubs, its barred windows were still intact. The door sagged slightly on one hinge,

but there were no signs of looting.

The four men froze, staring at it as though it might vanish if they blinked.

“Looks untouched,” Derek said quietly.

Lee grinned. “Third time lucky?”

Daryl adjusted his grip on his axe, eyes bright. “Only one way to find out.”

---

Inside, the air smelled of dust and stale air, but not rot. The shelves near the front were

stripped of bread, tins, and packets long ago. Faded posters advertising meal deals still

clung to the walls.

“Looks the same as everywhere else,” Callum muttered.

“Spread out,” Derek said. “Check everything.” They moved cautiously between the aisles, torch beams cutting through the gloom. Crisp

packets crunched underfoot, long past edible. Lee rattled an old fridge door but found

nothing but shattered glass.

It was Daryl who spotted it first. Behind the counter, a row of wooden crates sat stacked

against the wall, half-hidden by a collapsed display stand. Dust covered them thick, but the

bottle tops gleamed faintly in the torchlight.

He let out a low whistle. “Lads… you might want to see this.”

The others crowded round. Callum brushed the dust away with his sleeve, revealing rows of

glass bottles, still sealed, labels faded but legible. Lager. Ale. A few bottles of whisky shoved

to the back.

Lee’s eyes went wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Daryl popped a cap with his multitool, foam fizzing up the neck. He took a long pull, wiped

his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned. “Still good.”

Derek hesitated, then gave in, twisting the top off one himself. He raised it high. “To the old

days.”

The four bottles clinked together. The sound rang through the empty shop like a memory of

better times.

They drank. Careful swallows, savouring the fizz and the taste that dragged them back to

pubs, parties, and summer nights that now felt like another life. For a brief moment, they

weren’t soldiers or survivors. They were just friends, sharing a pint.

Callum wiped foam from his lip. “Right then, before we drink the bloody lot, get the rest

loaded. This haul will keep folk smiling for weeks.”

They laughed, still buzzing, as they hefted crates onto their shoulders and carried them out

to the truck.

---

The truck rattled along the broken road out of Shotts, the back piled high with crates hidden

beneath tarps. Lee sat in the passenger seat with the dartboard across his knees, still

grinning like a kid at Christmas.

Callum leaned out the window, humming an off-key tune. Daryl nursed another bottle, taking

slow sips as though stretching out the taste of the old world for as long as he could.

Derek kept his eyes on the road, but even he couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at his

mouth. Daryl leaned back and said, “Better hope the zombie police don’t pull us over for

drink-driving.”

Lee nearly spat his mouthful all over the dash. “Aye, what’s the fine for that then?

Community service and a side of braaains?”

Callum snorted. “Imagine it — pulled into the lay-by, officer drooling all over the licence and

insurance forms.”

“‘Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?’” Lee mimicked in a groaning zombie voice.

Daryl raised his bottle, eyes twinkling. “Just the one, officer.”

Even Derek laughed at that, shaking his head as the truck bounced over a pothole.

They kept it going, the jokes rolling like pints on a sticky bar counter.

“Suppose we get stopped at a checkpoint,” Callum said. “Row of zombies in hi-vis jackets,

waving us in with glow sticks.”

Lee joined in. “Breathalyser test’s just a funnel straight into their mouths.”

Daryl clutched his chest in mock horror. “Fail that one and they take your pint off you. Cruel

and unusual punishment.”

Callum laughed so hard he slapped the door. “Bet they’d still be quicker at paperwork than

the real polis.”

Derek snorted. “That’s not saying much.”

By the time New Haven’s walls came into sight, the truck was alive with laughter.

---

The gates groaned open and the truck rattled through, tyres crunching on gravel. Children

darted closer, curious, while adults hovered at the edges of the yard. Supply runs usually

came back with tools or scraps of food. This time, the men started unloading crates, one

after another, glass clinking faintly beneath the tarps.

The first bottles appeared and a cheer erupted.

“You’re joking!” someone shouted.

“Where in hell did you find that?” another laughed.

Maggie shook her head, half-scolding, half-smiling. “Bloody idiots. Only you lot would risk

your necks for beer.” But she was already reaching for a bottle when Callum passed one her

way. Bill raised his own high. “To Derek and the lads!”

The courtyard roared back, the sound echoing off the walls.

---

That night, under lanterns strung between the buildings, New Haven came alive. Bottles

were passed hand to hand. Someone dug out an old guitar, its strings twanging but still

serviceable. Children giggled as Lee set up the dartboard against the wall and declared the

first New Haven Darts League officially open.

Callum demonstrated his terrible aim, missing the board entirely and nearly hitting the side of

the truck. The crowd howled with laughter. “Still shite, even after the world ends,” Lee jeered.

Music drifted into the night, mingling with laughter and voices lifted in half-remembered

songs. For a few hours, the community wasn’t just surviving — it was living.

---

Derek stood off to the side, bottle in hand, watching it all. Jennifer laughed with Jillian near

the firelight, Maggie was scolding someone for sneaking the whisky too early, and Bellamy

and Munroe sat with their boots up, looking almost relaxed for once.

Daryl came to stand beside him, raising his drink. “Worth the risk?”

Derek looked out over the courtyard — the children smiling, the men and women laughing,

the fear held at bay for just one night — and allowed himself a true smile. “More than worth

it.”

For once, there was no talk of the dead beyond the walls. No whispered plans or looming

threats. There was only music, laughter, and the taste of a world that used to be.

The world was still broken. Tomorrow would bring danger again. But tonight, inside New

Haven’s walls, hope was bottled and shared.

And for one night, it was enough.

---

The Morning After

The sun crept over the walls, pale light spilling into the courtyard. For once, New Haven

wasn’t stirring early. A few unlucky souls shuffled about on guard duty, squinting through

red-rimmed eyes and clutching water canteens like lifelines. Maggie stood by the well with her arms folded, handing out water one ladle at a time. “Idiots,

the lot of you,” she muttered. “World ends and you still manage to give yourselves

hangovers.”

Callum staggered past, holding his head. “Never drinking again. Ever.”

Lee, already dragging the dartboard back into place, smirked. “Aye, until tonight.”

“Tonight?” Callum groaned. “You’re evil.”

Daryl slouched down onto a bench beside Derek, a bottle of flat lager in his hand. “Breakfast

of champions.”

Derek gave him a look. “You’ll be sick.”

“Worth it.” Daryl raised the bottle in salute, then winced as if the sunlight itself had teeth.

Derek shook his head, but a quiet smile crept across his face. For all the moaning, the

laughter still lingered in the walls. Even with sore heads and heavy eyes, people looked

lighter, as if the night before had carried them just a little further forward.

And that, Derek thought, was the real victory.